


lost in you, found in you

by bloodinfection



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Feelings Realization, Love Confessions, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Tender Sex, Trust Kink, except, feelings with porn, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodinfection/pseuds/bloodinfection
Summary: Geralt puts his lips to the hollow of his throat.This isn't fucking.Steady hands move to rest around his waist.They're not fucking.Geralt's fingers splay along the side of his ribcage, fitting seamlessly in its dips. A thoughtless caress; the final drop that makes the pot burst at last.Fuck.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 553
Collections: wiedźmin





	lost in you, found in you

**Author's Note:**

> i know this witcher fanfic train has boarded and left the station but i've been listening exclusively to the amazing devil for the past two months & i truly think i've found god oops
> 
> any & all song references you may find are only partially intentional since joey batey took up permanent residence in my brain, love yous xx

The whole affair, Jaskier thought, was quite magical.

Not—not magical in the way that a spell or a curse would be, or the enchantments etched into the silver of Geralt's sword.

Not magical considering the romance of it all, because Geralt wasn't the type to waste sweet words on someone who was already—undeniably and entirely—his for the taking.

No, but it was magical in the way that it made Jaskier see stars in the light of day. Bright, honey-gold stars that made the dull specks in the night sky seem laughably pale by comparison. And it just so happened that those stars, in that magical way, shone only for him.

Gods, but he could scarcely stop himself from becoming giddy at the thought.

He'd watch Geralt work the straps of his armour open and the sound of them unbuckling would make his heart flutter in the queerest of ways.

Geralt trusted him, he knew. He'd long since abandoned the animosity that came with expecting Jaskier to put a dagger through his throat in the night. A pivotal change it'd been, and one that made pride swell in his chest besides, but not the full truth.

Because there was trust, and then there was walking up to a man from behind and putting his hands around that man's neck to help him disrobe, and at another time, a lifetime ago, that would have earned Jaskier a blow to the face or a blade in his gut.

Times did change, or maybe it _had_ been a lifetime, Jaskier could not be sure of anything except that it was a reward in place of damnation, when Geralt would groan appreciatively and roll his shoulders as he'd been released from the weight of his garb.

Jaskier would slide his hands down Geralt's sides, then, grasp the bottom of his undershirt. Find himself overjoyed when the fabric would come off easily, not clinging to Geralt's skin with drying blood, like it so often had. He would relish the expanse of Geralt's back, like he'd relished every other part of him; with awe that he didn't trouble himself to conceal. As Geralt made to undo his breeches, Jaskier contemplated the way the muscles would ripple under his skin with every minute move. How they seemed wound so impossibly tighter than usual. How, just here, to the side, one would spasm from overuse. Geralt didn't seem to notice.

Jaskier had found it absolutely mesmerising.

With the lightest of touches he traced the lines of Geralt's back, down his spine and up again, until curiosity made him press his knuckles into the trembling muscle. It'd punched a sound out of Geralt, a winded thing of surprise, of pain and relief; a simple human reaction, yet beautiful in its complexity.

With a bow of his neck he put his lips where his fingers had been, in wordless apology or his own selfish want, he could not be certain.

"Come, dear," he'd whisper, gently brushing Geralt's hair to the side, delighting in the prospect of getting the knots out of it later.

Once more he pressed a kiss to Geralt's skin, and another and another still, along the slope of his shoulder, all the way to the arch of his neck where he was most vulnerable. But he'd found no protest in his way, verbal or otherwise, only a hand coming up to hold him in place for a lingering moment.

When he'd taken Geralt's hand and led him to the wooden tub, it was so much more in those amber eyes than simply trust.

So much more, Jaskier wouldn't dare chance the word, but even so it had sat heavy on the back of his tongue, had put a tremor in his hands and a quiver in his heart.

He would help Geralt rinse the soap out of his hair, and he would knead his back where it was most sore—because he'd wanted to. Because he could. Because the name for what this was almost suffocated him, but it wouldn't leave his mouth, and, in a fit of desperation, he'd knelt on the soaked floor to pull Geralt into a kiss, to make him feel it, too.

And maybe Geralt did feel it then, and maybe he feels it still, Jaskier muses later, when he's sat in Geralt's lap and the stretch in his thighs borders on painful, but the hands on his hips, unlike the vice on his heart, remain gentle. He'd find it endearing if his damn head would stop spinning enough for a chance at clarity. He lets his eyes fall shut in an attempt to collect himself, but behind his eyelids the echo of Geralt's gaze follows him like the golden tail of a comet.

Geralt makes a noise, then, quiet even when they're this close, and it seems, gods, _demanding_. Like he'd grown accustomed to being kissed, like he can't go another minute without it. And Jaskier indulges him, because how could he not, because he always does.

The oil they use smells of sweet almonds. Geralt had quipped, once, about what a treat it made out of him; long ago in the beginning, when there was still room for humour beside the overpowering need that entraps them both. He doesn't seem in the mood for wit anymore, if the way he sinks his teeth into Jaskier's lip—like he aims to devour him—is anything to go by.

Jaskier _aches_.

He aches to be filled, by Geralt's fingers and his cock, because he's just a man and Geralt is, well, absolutely divine.

He aches because he's so full already—of silly things, entirely intangible things, of _things_ that even a skilled poet cannot find the words to describe, or perhaps it's just that he's too craven to do so.

And when he's being kissed breathless, again, he thinks maybe Geralt understands anyway.

The air is cloyingly sweet as the oil's scent clings to them both. Jaskier thinks it almost assaulting, when Geralt opens him up on his fingers, and outright vicious when Geralt holds him so close, so tight, presses into him maddeningly slow, for no other reason than to unravel him completely.

And Jaskier's _just a man_ so unravel is _just what he does_ , because it's so much, too much, enough to sate his body but not his soul, and oh, how he aches.

Geralt lays soft kisses on his forehead, on his cheeks and his eyelids. He buries his nose in the hair behind Jaskier's ear and inhales so deeply it seems as if the air is stolen from Jaskier's own lungs. It makes him shudder. Geralt's hands tighten their hold on his hips for a heartbeat or two, like he can't help himself.

"Jaskier," he says, and no, he's certainly not one for sweet words, but his voice is tender like Jaskier had never heard it, and truly, words are worthless compared to the sweet suspension of this moment.

 _The death of me_ , Jaskier thinks, a sliver of a thought that crumbles as he forms it.

He nods, in response to nothing at all, raises up on his knees because he can't stop feeling like he's being ripped apart, so perhaps he can dull the torment by getting ravished.

It all used to be—temporary. Impersonal. Geralt wrapping a hand around his mouth and rutting into him from behind, mounting him like a wild thing in heat. Using him for lack of a whorehouse. And it'd been enough for Jaskier, gods, it'd been magnificent, all the glamour of his previous conquests faded from his memory, until it was only this, only Geralt, only them together.

And then it was only them and the—the thing lurking in the corner of every room they shared, just behind the line of trees at the edge of their camps. Geralt knows, Jaskier is certain, because Geralt always knows. Geralt doesn't say anything because—well.

So they both know but neither wants to admit it, and even when Jaskier is so full of Geralt's cock he feels it in his fucking _throat_ , even when it burns and it's so good, so perfect, he can't stop thinking about—

"My dear. My wolf. My _heart_ ," the words pour out of him like he's a cracked pot, overfilled and spilling. He bites down on his own knuckles to stop them.

Because Geralt can save him from men and monsters, from every vicious creature that roams the Continent, but when it comes to his own feelings, Jaskier is beyond saving.

He wishes he could fit an entire fist in his mouth. Wishes—for the first time in his life—to stay quiet. But Geralt—for the first time in _his_ life—takes both his wrist, brings his hands down. Laces their fingers together. Whispers, " _let me hear you_ ," as he rolls his hips languidly, and there's no rush, no hurry, like chasing release is an afterthought to the closeness they bask in. Jaskier can't help the high-pitched moan that escapes him at the thought.

"You've ruined me. Gods, I'm a ruin."

Geralt hums, kisses his neck, and that's—that's what Geralt does, now. He takes off his swords at the door, leaves bared teeth to the monsters he slays. He comes back to Jaskier soft and warm and trusting. Wraps his arms around him like he wants to _keep_ him.

Whenever they find themselves free of curious eyes, Geralt—he slips. He forgets the lies he'd studied so carefully, the ones trained and beaten into him. The lies he'd told Jaskier. The lies he tells himself. Suddenly, it's no more _don't need anyone_ and _don't want to be needed_. Suddenly, it's Geralt's fingers under his chin, tilting his face to claim a tender kiss as the urge strikes him. Not just when they're fucking, not anymore.

Geralt puts his lips to the hollow of his throat.

This isn't fucking.

Steady hands move to rest around his waist.

They're not fucking.

Geralt's fingers splay along the side of his ribcage, fitting seamlessly in its dips. A thoughtless caress; the final drop that makes the pot burst at last.

 _Fuck_.

"I love you," Jaskier says finally, _finally_ , and the admission startles him in its sincerity.

Geralt stills for a horrible moment, his grip tightening minutely. His eyes flit to Jaskier's before he tucks his face back into the crook of his neck. With a groan he lifts Jaskier just so, fucks him like he really means it, like he craves it.

"You—"

"I do," and he nods feverishly, and he rakes his nails down Geralt's back, overcome. "I do, I do, I _do_."

Geralt makes a sound like he would if an arrow had torn through his flesh, wounded and helpless.

Jaskier loses himself, for a second or an eternity, in the searing heat of their passion, in Geralt's harsh grip as he paws at him like an animal. And he's so light, so weightless, it wouldn't surprise him if he were to sprout wings any moment now. Because he _loves_ Geralt, truly does, like he's never loved anyone before. Loves him so dearly that he couldn't have professed his adoration any sooner. Because he loves Geralt and this time, it's real.

Geralt flips them over—because he's glorious and an insufferable show-off besides—and Jaskier is on his back, legs spread obscenely wide, the linen sticking to his sweaty skin and it's unattractive, he's going to be sore through to next week, gods, it's dizzyingly good. If he were to perish on the morrow, Jaskier would die content.

He doesn't quite realise how close he is until Geralt sneaks a hand between them, presses the heel of his palm against Jaskier's cock, just the way he likes. A whine sounds too loud in his own ears, but then Geralt echoes it with a groan and the ache inside Jaskier's chest swells and he's coming, he's falling, he's fucking _ascending_. When the air rushes back to his lungs he mumbles something that his own brain doesn't quite register, something that could be anything from _fuck_ to _Geralt_ to _I love you_.

Jaskier wants to kiss him, wants to kiss him forever until he's old and wrinkled and can't anymore, so he leans in and—

"Again," Geralt whispers, begs, pleads as he ruts into him with a fervour, face turned to the side and eyes squeezed shut. Jaskier can't breathe with how tightly he's being held.

"Say it again."

 _Oh_.

"I love you." It tastes good on his tongue. He never wants to say anything else. "I love you."

And Jaskier—he wouldn't dare call Geralt a man of sentiment. But perhaps he'd found one, just the one that undoes his witcher as much as it crumbles his own resolve because—

Geralt roars as he spills, a rumble from deep within his chest that leaves them both trembling.

Jaskier grabs a fistful of silver hair and drags Geralt up for a kiss. He keeps his eyes open which is—well, maybe a bit nightmarish, but he can't blink when the entire world is in front of him, and as a tear slips down his temple, Jaskier laughs, bright and loud and happy.

And later, when they lie together, his head on Geralt's chest, a fire crackling away in the hearth—when Geralt mindlessly runs a hand through his hair, the low hum of a tune settles in Jaskier's throat.

"No songs," Geralt says, his fingers trailing down the back of Jaskier's neck.

"Just the one?" he asks half-heartedly and he presses a kiss to a knotted scar on Geralt's side, just for the sake of it. Just because he _can_.

"You're a fucking child," Geralt huffs, just for the sake of it, too.

But a shadow of a smile creeps into his voice nonetheless, and the heat of the flames could not compare to the warmth spreading through Jaskier's heart.

"In another life, then."

**Author's Note:**

> i have a highly chaotic [tumblr](https://dont-you-dare-devil.tumblr.com)


End file.
